Today I watched parents say goodbye to their boy. I watched them quietly stare at their son lying in a white, shiny casket and all I could do was look away, walk away with a heavy heart. I listened to them speak of their loss, I held my tears back as they shed theirs. I listened to each drowned out word, how every muffled syllable echoed their grief. In a large room with over two hundred people, the silence was deafening. 

Its been a sad day. 

But yet, I rushed home, eager and excited to see my children.  I smiled and my heart skipped a beat when they reached out to welcome me home. I kissed their heads as if I had never kissed them before. I cuddled them till they couldn't breathe. And when I had them in my arms, I held them just that little bit longer. I forget how blessed I am to come home to them at the end of a long day, blessed to read them books at night before bed, blessed to pull the covers over their little bodies and extremely blessed to watch them flutter their little eyes as they sleep. In this time, I realise how lucky I am to have these moments when they've suddenly been stripped from others so drastically.

Who am I to complain about not having enough hours when some people have lost all?

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